25: Ad Astra
by Math Girl
Summary: Scott Tracy struggles to lead the family through a most trying time; tryng to salvage his brother while staying one step ahead of eager reporters.
1. Chapter 1

Just a litle, bridging sort of thing...

**Ad Astra: 1**

Some people, less burdened with this world's responsibilities, information and material wealth, might have considered Scott Tracy a very fortunate man. After all, he'd been a star student, talented athlete and decorated fighter pilot. Now, he was CEO of Tracy Aerospace, and one of the most powerful men in the world. Good looking, too, with dark hair, blue-violet eyes, dimples, broad shoulders and a clefted chin.

Blessed with all of _that,_ some men might have been tempted to relax and enjoy life, but not Scott Aaron Tracy. Like his father, Jeff, Scott worked constantly. Or… like his father had, before the man's sudden retirement. At the moment, Tracy, Senior, was traveling the world with his fiancée, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, leaving everything he'd once dealt with and agonized over to Scott.

That morning, the younger man was passenger aboard an aircraft he could easily have flown; reading a Wall Street Journal e-zine, checking his online stock reports, listening to his personal assistant and making plans for the day (in a half-hearted manner). Truthfully, there was much more than business on Scott's mind, as he sat in the Lear's splendidly appointed, faintly vibrating cabin.

He was en route from Tracy Island to Los Angeles, California, where a meeting was to be held to finalize his acquisition of Boeing. It was the brief stop on the way that had most of Scott's attention, though; not the clinking china, buttered croissants, coffee or insanely full business itinerary. Not even the woman seated across from him on the fast-jetting plane.

"Mr. Tracy… sir?" His personal assistant, Anita Clifton, seemed rather out of sorts, possibly because she'd had to repeat her last question several times, now. "What shall I say is your preference for the evening's dinner setting, sir? Balcony or courtyard?"

"Balcony," Scott decided, not really much caring. "And tell them to keep the music down. I'll be working late."

"Yes, sir. Balcony, no music. Prime rib and baked potato with Cobb salad? Strawberry shortcake for dessert?"

Scott ran a hand through his expensively trimmed hair, glad that Anita was around to shepherd him through this ocean of tiny decisions. That she was a button-cute redhead didn't hurt, either.

"Yeah. Sounds good, Anita. And, uh… contact Al Jenkins in public relations. Have him work up some "welcome to the family" re-orientation clips for the newbies. Boeing to Tracy Aerospace is quite a leap. Best get them prepared before the change-over."

"Yes, sir. I'll get Mr. Jenkins started on it, right away."

Anita nodded briskly, setting the small diamonds in her ears and lapel to sparkling in Plexiglas-filtered sunlight. Like Scott, she was dressed in fine, tailored business wear, but Anita wore her charcoal-grey suit and pale silk blouse with determined professionalism, while her boss was largely unconscious of his appearance once away from the closet.

Anita had been busily flicking and tapping her way through the appointment application on her sleek, silver i-phone. Now she glanced up from the screen, her grey eyes meeting Scott's over the top of her rimless glasses.

"St. Raphael's has contacted me to OK your visit, sir. Shall I confirm?"

_As if there was any question._

"Yeah," Scott told her, with the particular mix of resignation and hope that always came over him at these times. "Confirm my appointment, and let Dr. Craft know that I expect a full update; treatment, progress… everything."

_Just like always._

The company jet touched down at LAX later that morning, and then taxied to a private hangar, where a chauffeured black limousine was already warmed up and waiting. Scott exchanged a few vague pleasantries with the driver. Then he climbed into the vehicle with Anita and two armed body guards. The rest would follow in a separate car, close enough to come to the rescue, should anyone be foolish enough to attempt a broad-daylight kidnap. Such things had happened before, but this time, someone else was on the fame-and-envy hot seat, for much different reasons.

Scott Tracy's vehicles and entourage passed safely from the airport to his goal: St. Raphael of the Fountain Private Recovery and Long-term Care Facility, a pricey sanatorium which looked like a sprawling, walled campus nestled amid green, rolling hills. It was difficult to tell from looking at the place, but St. Rafe's was a sort of combination mental hospital and chic rehab center; the kind of treatment site where the nation's power elite hid their bent twigs and their self-medicated losers.

The Tracy family spent over two million dollars a year on one particular patient; Scott's brother, John. They visited regularly, as well, to be sure that the young man… who'd descended into frozen, bleak silence at seven years of age… was being well cared for. It would have been nice to keep John at home, but while they might have provided basic invalid care, they couldn't have treated him there, and Scott, grandma… hell, the whole _family_… still hoped for a genuine recovery, even after so many years. Also, John had a habit sometimes of getting up to wander the grounds; manageable in a young child, but difficult and dangerous to curtail in a fully grown man.

Scott had a number of important questions for Dr. Craft that morning, mostly having to do with a brand-new, two-pronged treatment strategy instituted a few months prior. He'd have liked to concentrate on wording his questions, but there was a crowd of surging, noisy paparazzi camped around the gate and stone walls of St. Raphael's, and getting through them was a very slow business.

"What's all this about?" Scott wondered aloud, peering through the car's tinted windows at a horde of seedy looking photo-journalists. They had long range lenses and digital video cams, and they bent down as the driver honked and inched past them, fighting for a glimpse at the limousine's passengers. "Did somebody famous skip out on rehab?"

"No, Mr. Tracy," Anita told him, shaking her sleekly coiffed head. "But someone _extremely_ popular just checked herself in: Cassie Peak."

Scott's face must've been as blank as his memory, because Anita went on, adding,

"The pop star…? You know…? _'Touch Me All Over,'_ and _'Baby, I'm Your Sugar Rush'_? Word is, her boyfriend dumped her to study in a Tibetan Lamasery, and her latest album's some kind of toxic disaster. So, she checked into St. Rafe's two days ago, to get away from all the press."

"Oh."

Scott nodded, though he didn't really get it. He'd never had a successful relationship in his life and couldn't sing a note, so Cassie Peak's troubles seemed vanishingly unimportant to him. Must have been pretty awful to her, though.

The mob outside included poster-wielding well wishers and several parked, picture-snapping tour busses. There was even a helicopter circling overhead. Altogether, St. Raphael of the Fountain looked more like a sporting arena than a private care facility, and Scott resented the chaos. What would happen if John somehow wandered into that crowd and got lost?

"Anita, have the director double security on my brother, and pass along my concerns about how all this noise and confusion is impacting his _actual_ patients."

"Yes, Mr. Tracy." Wisely, she hadn't put away her phone, anticipating that Scott might have another few (hundred) demands.

It took them almost forty-five minutes to creep along the access road and in through the high, barred gates of St. Raphael of the Fountain. Scott was not in a good mood when he finally saw Dr. Craft. Not the physician's fault. Scott should probably have cut the man some slack instead of demanding to know how long this "brain chemistry adjustment" and "computer bio-feedback" was going to take to show results.

"Mr. Tracy," said the slim, smaller man, fussy in a white lab coat, folded stethoscope and black bowtie, "my methods work. Please have a bit of patience. Your brother's condition had been essentially unchanged for seventeen years. Reaching him, getting through those barriers, isn't going to be easy."

Or quick. Or cheap… but of course, Scott didn't say so. He just waited, and he paid, grasping after any hope at all that John could be "normal" again.

Dr. Craft's office was decorated in soothing colors and impressionist paintings, most of them produced by his higher-functioning patients. His bank account was decorated by John Tracy, Cassie Peak and every other mixed-up billionaire's kid who wound up at St. Rafe's.

Nevertheless, Scott apologized for his impatience and shook the psychiatrist's hand, then listened as Craft explained how medicines were altering the balance of certain neurotransmitters in John's brain, and stimulating the growth and branching of mirror neurons. But the most promising treatment, Dr. Craft assured him, came from an array of attention-sensing bio-feedback instruments.

"Essentially, Mr. Tracy, when your brother pays attention to anything at all external… even a patch of sunlight or the movement of characters on a TV screen… he's rewarded with pleasant tones or a favorite video clip. Shifting his focus is like turning an aircraft carrier, Mr. Tracy, but it _is_ happening. He's used the bio-feedback gear to change his suite's lighting and shut the drapes, and once to switch television channels from soccer to baseball. It's working, Mr. Tracy… one small step at a time."

Scott nodded slowly, forcing himself not to become overly hopeful. To the dapper, precise little doctor, he said,

"I want what's best for my brother, Dr. Craft. Whatever that takes and however much it costs. You worked miracles in the Lyn Carroll case. I expect nothing less from you, now."

Dr. Craft's jaw muscles tightened, but he agreed.

"Of course, Mr. Tracy," he replied in grim, quiet tones. "I vow to do everything in my power to speed and guide John's recovery."

A promise which Scott intended to hold him to. He left Dr. Craft's office in the company of Anita and a single body guard, traversing St. Raphael's park-like grounds and grand hotel interior with just one notable incident. He bumped into a nurse on the way to John's suite, literally colliding with the dark-haired young woman, who must have been new to the place.

"Sorry about that," she said to Scott, ignoring the body guard's fixed stare and bulging muscles. "I just went on-shift again, after a two hour nap. This isn't my usual ward."

"Right," Scott agreed, suspicious, but unable to decide why. "Lack of sleep's a killer, for certain. That's why they fed us round-the-clock alertness tabs in the Air Force."

She cocked her head, gazing at Scott, Anita Clifton and the body guard, Mitch. Her nametag read "Sandra Trainor" and her aspect was anything but exhausted. More like alert and curious, Scott would have said. Vaguely familiar, too.

"Fighter pilot, huh?" she guessed, with uncomfortable accuracy. Strange… but maybe she'd nursed aviators in the Air Force or Navy before coming to St. Raphael.

"Something like that. And now, if you'll excuse me, Ms. Trainor…?"

"You betcha," the woman said to him, all at once bright and plasticky sweet as a life-sized, brunette Barbie Doll. "Have a nice day, sir!"

Then she sped off along the broad, blue-carpeted hall, angling toward a row of big windows overlooking the sanatorium courtyard. Another time, Scott would have worried more, but just now, primed by Dr. Craft, he was eager to see his brother, John.


	2. 2: Small Steps

**2: Small Steps**

St. Raphael of the Fountain was an extremely beautiful private care facility; the very best that fame and great fortune could buy. It resembled a five-star hotel more than a sanatorium, with elegant seating and coffee bars for the patients and their visiting guests. Not that John or Scott had ever sat at one of those spindly-legged café tables, sipping iced cappuccino… but the sky-lit waiting area still made a handy place for the executive to park his body guard and personal assistant. They would proceed no further that morning, because some things, after all, were private.

He left the pair with orders to stay alert (for Mitch, the security man) and summon a company helicopter (this last was directed at Anita, because Scott refused to head back through that obstreperous, camera-wielding mob. Too dangerous). Glancing at his gold wrist watch, the worried, tense, impatient CEO said,

"I'll be gone about an hour. Have the helicopter here in forty minutes, fueled and ready to go."

Anita was on it before Scott was through speaking. Acting swiftly, his assistant began calling around to various branch offices, meaning to locate the nearest available aircraft. Scott didn't wait to see his orders carried out. Satisfied that both employees would perform as expected, he left them behind and walked on.

The wide corridor dog-legged about thirty feet from that luxurious waiting area. Around the bend was set a guarded and staffed nurses' station, where Scott was required to present himself and sign in. He did so, passing through a voice-activated door once his ID had been checked and the visit confirmed by Dr. Craft. Another short hall contained two further doors, but Scott chose the one on his right. Number 313: John's.

The suite was spacious and airy, comprising a bedroom, bath facilities, treatment area, courtyard, sitting and TV room. It was quite a large space for one person, made somewhat homey by pictures of the family, a few of grandma's knitted blankets, and the kind of sports and aerospace memorabilia everyone thought John might like. Seventeen years of birthdays and Christmases added up to an awful lot of baseball cards, but no disorder at all, because once things were placed, John never moved them.

Scott strode through the suite to John's TV room, battling a wave of irrational hope that some marvelous change had come over his brother; that he'd get up from that chair, maybe stretch, or pat back a huge yawn, and say "hello". It didn't happen, of course. The only greeting Scott received was a surge of noise from the television set. Nothing at all from the thin, blond man in tee-shirt and jeans who waited inside. But that was the problem with hope. So often, in Scott's experience, it led to disappointment.

Forcing a smile, anyhow, he crossed the room to his brother's centrally placed chair and touched John's shoulder. The young man did not react. Not physically, at least. His biofeedback monitor did something interesting, though. Supposedly scanning John's higher brain function, the screen all at once displayed a few spikes and a slow color shift. These intensified a bit when Scott removed his hand from John's shoulder and then again, when he dragged a second chair around so that he could sit, facing his completely internalized brother.

"Hey," he said, settling into the leather chair with a tired grunt. "How's it going? Lots to talk about, this time, John; starting with business. That acquisition I was telling you about…? Looks like we're good to go. Boeing desperately needs liquid capital and protection from hostile takeover bids, so they haven't put up much of a fight. It's a win-win scenario, with ninety percent of the victory in our column."

The feedback screen's prevailing color shifted unexpectedly from blue to green. Meaning…? Scott couldn't be sure, as there was no change in John's slightly hunched, stomach-ache body posture, and no expression at all on his face. Same old thing. Had Scott really expected different?

For about the next ten minutes, the CEO talked shop. Then he shifted to news from home; what grandma had taken to growing, Gordon's standing in the last swim meet, dad's vacation itinerary… that sort of light gossip.

It was while he sat there, recounting Alan's latest school infractions, that Scott noticed something odd. Whenever he spoke, the room's flat-screen TV quieted, returning to full audio when Scott paused for breath or took a drink from the water glass that a smiling orderly brought in to him. More importantly, the channels switched; WNN while Scott discussed business, ESPN when he talked about Gordon, and some kind of goofy, violent cartoon for Alan. Grandma's name and doings received a Better Homes and Gardens cooking show (for domestic reasons, probably).

"John…" the CEO wondered aloud, aware that the hour he'd scheduled for this meeting was nearly done with. "This is going to sound dumb, but… can you hear me? Are we having an actual conversation?"

The television screen flicked smoothly to a game show contestant's big food-lottery win. The lucky, costumed individual began jumping up and down to theme music, flashing lights and showers of golden confetti. Coincidence? Faked improvements preplanned by Dr. Craft? Or a truly smart-ass response from someone trapped in his own head for seventeen very long years?

Determined to find out, Scott Tracy cleared his suddenly dry throat and said,

"Remember all those times you kept score at my little league games, John? And how the visiting teams always threw a fit over some geeky four-year-old controlling the damn scoreboard? A couple of them even threatened to walk off the field. Granddad and coach set them straight, though. Remember?"

ESPN flicked hurriedly past, but was rejected in favor of a family show; one with a blonde, pretty actress leading the cast. Taking a chance, Scott dragged his gaze away from the wall-mounted television and back to his brother's still face, saying,

"Yeah. Mom was there, too. You're right. And dad showed up, whenever he could. Made me sort of nervous, though, because I wanted to hit a homerun for him, but mostly all I could manage were grounders and pop flies."

At this admission, a spectrum of TV channels flicked past, settling after a moment on some kind of European dog show; the talent competition. At first, Scott was puzzled. Then, he began to smile.

"Yeah… that one time, Rusty ran onto the field and chased the ball, because dad got a phone call and had to let go the leash." Scott couldn't help laughing, now, even though… "The umpire called back my homerun, but you wouldn't change the scoreboard, so we _both_ got thrown out of the game."

His laughter ended abruptly, as something within Scott Tracy had wound itself so tight that it hurt to breathe. So tight, he thought he'd shatter like glass. Right, then. Worth a try... wasn't it? Worst case scenario, he'd made a mistake, was imagining things.

"Listen, John. I'm leaving here, today, and you're coming with me. I'm serious as hell, buddy. We're walking out that door in ten minutes, together. Do you understand? Whatever this feedback thing is… if it's tied to your ID chip, or whatever… doesn't matter a damn bit. I've got a TV application on my cell phone we can use to communicate. All you've got to do is say yes."

Scott waited, but for a time, nothing happened. The television remained fixed on some ridiculously perky commercial break. Then, after a bit of switching about, it settled once more; this time dividing into split screen exterior views of St. Rafe's and a cozy, single-family house.

"No," Scott objected, shaking his head. "This _isn't_ your home, John. We're from Kansas, originally, but an awful lot's happened to us, since, and you belong with the rest of the family."

Scott's cell phone beeped; Anita, discreetly reminding the CEO that he had places to be and deals to close. But Scott wouldn't have left had the room been lined with rusted rat traps and poisoned spikes. Instead, he texted '_wait'_, with flying thumbs, and then stuffed his phone deep in a silk-lined vest pocket.

"Okay, how about this? Let's call it an outing or... a vacation. Two weeks, for starters."

His brother's heartbeat and breath controlled television paused. Then, a musical kid's show flashed up, brought to them by the letter "E" and a gyrating number "1".

"Fine," Scott agreed, ready to take anything at all. "_One_ week experiencing the big bad world, with a promise to come straight back to St. Rafe's, if it doesn't work out. Well…? Are you with me, John?"

…Because just then, so much depended on the courage of a young man who'd last seen reality at seven years of age.


	3. 3: Temporary Reprieve

Thanks, Mitzy, ED, Tikatu, Sam, I-Like-Chickens and Digi-Girl, for your comments and reviews. :)

**3: Temporary Reprieve**

The room's TV-spiked quiet stretched to the breaking point and beyond, but John didn't move or reply. He just sat there, huddled up like an emergency appendectomy candidate. Then, Scott's cell phone buzzed, sounding like a pocketful of noisy cicadas.

Muttering impatiently, Scott yanked the phone out again, meaning to shut the intrusive thing off. Force of habit made him check the screen first, though, because fortunes had been won and lost on the strength of a single, missed call. There was a new text message listed, from "unknown user". On a sudden hunch, glancing at his ice-pale brother, Scott checked the message.

_Why leave?_ It said. _What is outside?_

"Your family, for one thing. Actual experiences, for another. You could ride along with me to the conference… I'll ditch the helicopter and rent a convertible, if you like… have a look at the ocean and eat some real food."

A glance upward for thought showed him the galaxy of plastic stars and planets which had been glued to the ceiling by grandma and dad, all those years ago.

"There are actual stars out there, John. The real thing, not posters and videos. Just like in Kansas, if you get far enough away from the city. But none of that's coming in here. You're going to have to get out and find it."

It was another long moment, frail and etiolated, before his cell phone buzzed again. This time, the message read:

_Not sure how. Been a long time._

Seventeen years, to be exact.

"Just follow my lead. I'll help you out of that chair, and then we'll walk to the elevators. Nothing to it, once you've made up your mind to try."

And that's pretty much what happened, despite the sincere concerns of Dr. Craft and his horrified medical staff. Scott made two phone calls, once he'd gotten his brother levered up out of that damn chair. First, he rang Anita, bidding her head for the admin office to get John's discharge paperwork and travel prescriptions started. Then, he called Jeff, who took the news… cautiously.

_"You're doing __what__?"_ his father demanded, over the sound of far-off music and tinkling, refined chatter.

"Taking John with me to San Francisco, dad. He's showing major improvement, interaction-wise, and I think the outing would do him some good. My people can keep him company while I attend the conference, but I'll handle everything else. It'll work, dad. I'll _make_ it work."

_"You're sure about this, son?"_

Scott nodded stubbornly, summoning the kind of certainty that sealed million-dollar contracts and assembled vast empires.

"Yes, sir. I'm positive. John belongs with us, not in a hospital, and if he's got any chance at all for a normal life, we've got to help him take it. I've talked to him dad, through TV and text messages, and he's willing to try."

His father's transmitted image and voice were difficult to make out. The lights had gone down, there, and Jeff's voice was pitched low, so as not to disrupt the evening's entertainment. Memory sketched in the details, though; the grey hair, brown eyes and broad shoulders

"_Understood, Scott. Proceed with the plan as outlined. I'll meet you tomorrow morning at the San Francisco branch_."

Scott was surprised. He hadn't expected to see much of Jeff until well after the honeymoon. Weirdly, he both welcomed his father's involvement and resented it. Was Jeff trying to say that he didn't trust Scott to handle the situation? Or was he just eager to greet a long-silent son? It was hard to say, at this point. He had to respond, though, for Jeff was still on the line, waiting.

"Right. See you tomorrow, dad."

After signing off, Scott began talking his younger brother out of the glorified hospital suite. They proceeded slowly, for John was as physically unresponsive and resistant to touch as ever.

Scott guided his brother's trance-like walk with occasional light taps to the elbow and a steady stream of whispered directions. John replied variously, through whatever was handiest; the cell phone, a security screen and scores of waiting room televisions. Using his ID chip and Dr. Craft's experimental bio-feedback device, John was able to modify the output of most electronic mechanisms. For the first time in years, he could communicate.

Scott's bodyguard trailed the two brothers, scanning the wide hallway and waiting rooms for potential trouble, while calling up the other guards. He it was who spotted their lithe, slinking shadow, and alerted Scott.

"Mr. Tracy, I'll need you to step out of the main passage and into that alcove," the big man told his startled boss. "We're being followed."

Scott had been too well trained by TA's security chief to argue with a bodyguard's orders. Seizing John's elbow, the CEO backed obediently into a nearby cleaning-bot recharge bay. John was confused and resistant, though; he did not understand their sudden change in direction. Nor did Scott have time to explain. All he could do was shove John into the gilt-and-velvet appointed recharge bay, blocking his brother's stiff form with his own body. He wasn't armed, having left that sort of thing to hired professionals like Mitch, but maybe the recharge bay had a crowbar, or something…

"Mr. Tracy? Sir?"

Scott pivoted, keeping one arm out to support John. Mitch stood before him with the nurse they'd met earlier, Sandra Trainor.

"I've apprehended our tail, Mr. Tracy. She's unarmed, but won't talk to me. Orders, sir?"

Scott relaxed a little, once again regarding the dark-haired, oddly familiar nurse. She was pretty enough, he supposed, if you happened to like brunettes with pony-tailed hair, intelligent eyes and no makeup.

"Still can't find your ward, Miss Trainor?"

Scott couldn't help joking, because he wasn't facing another kidnap attempt. She smiled at him and cocked a dark eyebrow.

"'Fraid not. And it's Taylor, not Trainor. You'll have to forgive the deception, Mr. Tracy. I'm on assignment. Sort of a last-chance thing."

Taylor? As in _Cindy_ Taylor? WNN_?_ Scott paled. On the whole, he'd rather have ducked and hustled his way out of a "situation" than face an ambush interview in the public domain.

"What kind of assignment?" he asked, to give himself time. Thankfully, the St. Rafe's staff was well paid to see nothing, unless specifically summoned. Scott didn't need the publicity. Not with a conference and probable stock-split coming up.

Responding to his question, Taylor gave a rude little snort.

"Cassie Peak? Maybe you've heard of her? Not that I'm into pop-diva caterwauling, but when in Rome… and in need of a few denarii… you stalk the highest rated Roman. Unless something better comes along, that is."

He'd never seen such a predatory, white-toothed smile.

"Shall I escort the lady off the premises, sir?" Mitch cut in, stepping aggressively forward. Scott shook his head, no.

"Not unless you're willing to have the press spouting garbage and lies about a Scott Tracy rehab stay."

Looking from his furious bodyguard to the smiling reporter, Scott said,

"Miss Taylor, I _assure_ you that this is a perfectly boring, ordinary family matter. The public isn't going to go nuts because I chose to visit my hospitalized brother."

"Sure," Cindy countered. "I get it: Just Joe-Average Billionaire walking his pet zombie, who responds to voice commands with text message and TV shows. Nothing interesting about that; no, _sir_."

Scott's stomach muscles clenched as he visualized Taylor's likely news report. Even if he turned her in to St. Raphael's security staff, even if he sued her, she could still post a deeply embarrassing story. He had to think of some way to back her down, but before Scott could say anything further, the reporter's cell phone buzzed. Startled, Cindy pulled the slim device from her uniform pocket and flipped it open. Her eyebrows flew halfway into her hairline, and then she began to scowl. Glaring at John, she said,

"Zip it, Mr. Personality. Before this morning, you belonged in a supermarket potato bin, with all the other vegetables. What the hell do you know?"

Quite a lot, apparently, for his next message made the reporter's face redden.

"Yeah?" she snapped. "Prove it!"

Scott stepped in before John could become agitated. Normally, only restlessness or anger could disrupt his blond brother's intense self-focus. The one led to insomniac wandering; the other to violence. …And neither was a good thing.

"Listen, Miss Taylor. All I'm trying to do is check my brother out of this place for a week's R&R. There's no mystery, here, and nothing at all worth reporting. So, I'd really appreciate it if you'd go back to harassing the pop-star, and leave us in peace."

A little harsh, possibly, but Scott deliberately lowered his voice and bent a certain long look at her; the kind that always got things started, but never went anywhere meaningful. Cindy blinked, shaking off the force of Scott Tracy's gaze with an obvious effort.

"That's it, Hollywood," she told him. "You're now _officially_ on my shit list, but I'll hold off filing the rehab story… if you promise to give me a real interview, next Monday afternoon. My time, your location. Interested?"

Common sense told him no, but then a voice, shriveled away to a rusted grunt from years of disuse, whispered,

"Okay."

Everyone… Cindy, Mitch the bodyguard and Scott Tracy… turned to look at John, who was hugging himself and staring intently at the carpeted floor. As though startled by the sound of his own voice, or maybe the recharge lights and strange people, John began humming. Not very loudly, and after seventeen years, still very much out of tune.

Carefully, Scott touched his brother's near shoulder, not pursuing when John flinched away.

"I should agree to the interview?" he asked.

John stopped humming.

"Yeah. Advise you agree," he whispered again, almost too quietly to hear. Then, desperately seeking apartness, John closed his eyes and turned to face the gilt-patterned wall.

The smile that Scott subsequently gave Cindy was almost blinding in its intensity, and all because of five hesitant words.

"Okay, then. I guess it's a date, Miss Taylor. Monday afternoon at Le Cirque, my treat. I'll tell you where all the bodies are buried, and who shot Colonel Mustard, promise."

Cindy grinned back at this strange, handsome and wealthy young man. Partly because he had no idea what he was in for, but mostly because she'd scored a major coup, and _still_ had time to track down and pounce on that poor, unwary pop star. And life didn't get much better than that.


	4. 4: The Other Side

Edited. Many thanks for your comments and reviews.

**4: The Other Side**

_In Southern California, surrounded by golden sunlight and rolling hills-_

Scott Tracy was in a hurry, so he put off ordering that sports car. For now, at least, the helicopter was a better choice. He might have been expecting perfection from his impromptu vacation… instant, dramatic results… but that's not what he got.

John wasn't "normal" yet, and perhaps never would be. Things concerned him that Scott wouldn't have blinked an eye at. Take aircraft, for instance. The blue-decaled Tracy Aerospace helicopter idled on St. Raphael's rooftop helipad, engines whining like a mulish toddler. Literally _hundreds_ of times, Scott Tracy had sped from his penthouse or meeting room to a waiting chopper, ducking low to avoid the scything rotors, hand shielding his face from wind-borne debris. For him, easy as stepping into the garage to chose the day's car.

John balked, though, confused by the noise and the strangeness. Scott had to remind him of a carnival helicopter ride they'd taken as kids, before his brother would venture from St. Raphael's rooftop lounge to the sunny, air-swirling helipad.

"You've already flown in one, remember? At the state fair in Cheyenne? You sat on mom's lap, up front. I was with granddad in the back. The flight cost fifty dollars, and grandma said we were all crazy."

But John hesitated, pausing just outside the glass double doors. Scott wanted to shove his brother along, but instead was forced to be patient. Lowering his voice to avoid attracting attention, he said,

"Look, I promise you, John, it's perfectly safe. Better than a carnival ride, anyhow. If you like, I'll show you the maintenance log."

That maintenance log offer did the trick, though John cost his aggravated brother thirty minutes of valuable time while he looked the thing over (and pointed out that a set of bolts in the tail rotor were two days past ideal replacement). The company pilot was a young fellow named Landon Maugham. He had spiky brown hair, glasses and a thin, wise face.

"Thanks, Mr. Tracy," he said to John, when the chopper's repair issue was brought to his attention. "I'll get right on that, and rip my lazy mechanics a new bunghole. Stuff like that doesn't get caught, people die. Want to see the flight controls, sir?"

_Another_ twenty minutes wasted. Or maybe not, since John got comfortable enough to actually take a ride. Finally. At this rate, San Francisco might as well have been Mars. Scott wasn't on schedule _or_ happy, but John was well enough occupied. He began learning to fly; growing accustomed to noise, vibration, dips and autorotation. More importantly, he figured out the relationship between manipulated controls and his own position in space.

There was a lot to see on the way. Landon pointed out the sights as they flew, warming to tour guide duty like a natural. As the helicopter swooped low past a graceful red bridge, he nodded and said,

"That's the Golden Gate Bridge, Mr. Tracy. I don't care what they say about that big Asian mega-span. This one's…"

"John."

The pilot glanced away from his flight controls at the blond young man in the seat beside his.

"Sir?" Landon questioned.

"John," his employer's brother repeated, barely loud enough to hear over wind, engine and rotor noise.

Landon cast a worried look over his right shoulder at Scott Tracy, who shrugged and nodded. In this particular instance, first names were okay. Sure felt funny, though.

Scott tipped the pilot very generously, once they landed on the roof of San Francisco's Hotel Nikko.

"Thank you for spending so much time with my brother," he said, giving Landon a five-hundred dollar handshake. "You didn't have to do that."

The pilot took off his glasses and polished them on the hem of his blue uniform jacket.

"No problem, sir. I've got a five-year-old niece who never makes eye contact or lets anyone touch her. She hasn't learned to talk yet, but… y'know… something good could happen for Chelsea, too. Just like it has for John… that is, for Mr. Tracy."

"Absolutely," Scott agreed. "Ever heard of a guy named Gerald Craft? He's a doctor back at St. Raphael's, and…"

So it went. Whether the referral would help or not, Scott had no way to tell. He could set up and fund a first round of appointments, though. And he could hope.

The lovely hotel was a piece of modernist, Japanese elegance with broad balconies, computerized walls and Zen furnishings. The view of San Francisco Bay was incomparable, and Scott stayed there whenever business brought him to town. He'd engaged a suite, as usual, but this time actually _needed_ the extra rooms.

John was restless, unable to get comfortable in so disorientingly different a place. Nothing was where he expected it to be, and nothing looked the same as at "home". Nothing but the television… which had been programmed into the wrong wall. Scott had no choice but to rearrange furniture, recruiting the hotel staff, his body guards and Anita to remake Hotel Nikko's presidential suite in the image of a far-off care facility. Only then did John settle down.

Needless to say, Scott was late and out of sorts by the time he reached the chosen, neutral-ground conference site, the Bayside Tower West. Another fifteen minutes, and the Boeing team would simply have cancelled negotiations. It took all of Scott's diplomacy (and Anita's… and Albert Jenkins') to smooth their injured feelings. It also took upping his original offer by fifteen percent, but eventually, all was forgiven, leaving Tracy Aerospace and Boeing International to gather round the table and come to terms.

All that afternoon, Scott listened to contract wording and viewed Power Point slides. What he did not do was concentrate, because…

Damn, it really was a beautiful day, out there. Far too nice to be trapped indoors with a lot of lawyers and accountants. He had a sort of date planned, with broadcast news' female Jack the Ripper, and Scott was starting to look forward to their meeting.

During a very long liquid asset discussion, Scott wondered what John was up to. Still watching TV? Or had Mitch succeeded in teaching him to play poker? And what about the pilot's niece, Chelsea? Would the treatments his brother had received help her, as well?

Looking around the boardroom at a pinch-faced swarm of negotiators, Scott suddenly longed to be somewhere else. God, _how_ long had it been since he'd flown his own plane? Gone to the shore? How long since he'd thought about anything other than cash flow and stock reports? Years, Scott decided. In his own way, he'd been just as buried as John.

Great. Wonderful. He had a full-blown mid-life crisis coming on, and he wasn't yet thirty. Al Jenkins brought him back to the present with a quick nudge, delivered while reaching for another bottle of Perrier. The look on Jenkins' classic WASP face was deeply reproving. He was old money, Hyannis Port royalty, and dad's representative on the negotiating team. A window popped up on Scott's laptop screen a few moments later.

"_Pay attention, old fellow,"_ read Jenkins' swift message. "_One-hundred percent focus until the ink has dried and the last hand's been clasped. Only way to do business."_

Right. Focus… Fortunately for everyone present, Scott had a team of crack troops handling most of the dickering. Otherwise, his inattention would have cost TA billions. But at session's close, he felt like he had on the last day of school, back in Kansas. Dodging Albert Jenkins, he felt like he'd _escaped._

Outside the Bayside Tower, Scott did something incredibly risky. At street level, just like a regular guy, he caught the trolley back to his hotel, clinging to a strap and breathing sea air along with Anita Clifton, five nervous, hawk-eyed bodyguards, and a few puzzled tourists. San Francisco was a truly beautiful city, Scott discovered, and all he'd ever done was fly in for business meetings and then rocket right out again.

He arrived at the hotel in an expansive, time-to-relax mood, only to find that John and Mitch were gone. Sending his remaining guards out to radio their missing comrade and canvass the hotel, Scott double and triple checked every room in his spacious suite. Nothing. Anita rang both Mitch and Scott, messaging the one and checking the other's voice mail. Sensible woman, Anita.

"Mr. Tracy, it's all right," she told him, just as the bodyguard steered John back in through the hall door. "They stepped out for a…"

"Hot dog, sir," Mitch admitted, reddening. "I was ordering room service, just like you said, and come to find out that John's never eaten off a hot dog cart. So, I thought… I mean… according to the concierge, there was one practically right outside."

Mitchell Falk sighed like a man defeated, and then he simply stopped trying to explain.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tracy," he said, but Scott wasn't listening. "I shoulda known better."

The older Tracy had gone directly to John, who stood by the doorway holding a foil-wrapped hotdog that he hadn't yet sampled.

"You okay?" Scott asked him.

John had few expressions and fewer gestures. He would have to relearn how to nod, shrug his shoulders, or laugh. He could use pictures to communicate, though, or pull up a TV scene that matched what was happening inside. Sometimes he even could talk.

The television had been muttering along quietly to itself. Now it grew louder and brighter, its pixels expanding in number to occupy half of a wall. The scene displayed was a funny one; part of a show about pratfalling tourists in London. Several Bobbies were chasing them across Trafalgar Square past the Landseer Lion, as they'd somehow offended the locals.

Scott's shoulder and back muscles unknotted, and he allowed himself to relax. After all, John _had_ been promised real food.

"Try the hotdog," he said. "Mitch is right. They're good, especially with beer and cheese fries."

So much for prime rib and Cobb salad. Anita Clifton sidled up to Scott, just as he finished speaking. Very quietly, she told him.

"There was a message left on your phone, Mr. Tracy. Falk _did_ report where they were going, but an equipment glitch seems to have cut transmission to the other guards. Nothing that can't be repaired, though."

Scott nodded, too relieved to be angry, and also too hungry.

"Tell you what," he said to the worried bodyguard, pulling a hundred dollar bill from his wallet. "We're going to need a few more of those, plus whatever they've got to drink that complements processed meat."

Mitchell Falk accepted the money, along with a twenty from Anita, who'd pretty much saved his career.

"Will five do, Mr. Tracy?" he asked their employer.

"Make it six," Scott smiled, throwing his grey suit jacket onto a nearby chair. "Some of us are hungry."

_________________________________________

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sleeping turned out to be more of an issue, even, than food. How the hell was Scott supposed to know that John preferred dark blue cotton sheets… _and that he wouldn't lie down on anything else?_ Between sheet hunts, and getting his travel prescriptions filled, the concierge desk got an Olympic-sized workout.

All this late-night chaos might have been worth it had John actually slept, but he didn't. The only thing his brother did (all ten times that Scott woke up to check on him) was watch TV on half the screen, while playing several video games at once on the quartered other half. Strange… but at least he was quiet.

In the morning, Scott ordered up a silver Porsche convertible, and they drove east to the Tracy Aerospace building. Got breakfast at a McDonald's drive-thru on the way, because John was now fascinated with paper-wrapped convenience food.

The line behind them was an impatient maelstrom of honking horns and flashing lights by the time John finally made his selection: Egg McMuffin, hash browns and orange juice (texted to Scott via cell phone). But there was no rushing John. Scott could only hope that dad wasn't expecting punctuality… and that Albert Jenkins the Fourth could begin negotiations without him, because Scott had a lot on his hands.

They'd parked the car and were in the Tracy Building's executive elevator, headed for the top, when John spoke again. His words were quiet and halting, sounding nothing at all like the voice of a four-alarm pain-in-the-ass.

"Dad. What if he…"

Maintaining proper elevator etiquette, Scott regarded his brother's reflection in the polished bronze doors, rather than looking straight at him. Didn't matter. John's head was down, anyway, blond hair brushing the collar of his polo shirt and hiding his face. Scott doubted that his brother would notice if he stared like a pop-eyed goldfish.

"What if he _what?"_ Prompted the dark-haired young man. "Dies of old age before we get there? Decides to take the family business away from his clearly incompetent son?"

Too many questions, worded too strangely for John. Instead of answering directly, he messaged Scott's phone again.

'_What if he doesn't want me back?'_

Scott turned to stare at him.

"What the hell kind of question is that?" He demanded. "Of course dad wants you back! We all do! I was on the phone with Virge while you spent all morning in the bathroom. _He's_ hopping a flight from Denver tomorrow, right after final exams. Gordon's coach has him chained to a lane divider, apparently, but he's coming, too, just as soon as the season's over. Alan _never_ needs an excuse to cut school. I'm surprised he's not here, already. And, uh… if everything works out, and you're willing to extend this vacation, John, I can take you to see grandma, out on the island. She's missed you, buddy. We _all_ have."

The elevator slid to a gentle, sighing halt. Chimes sounded, and the doors opened. Scott got another text message, though, so he didn't immediately step through.

'_He yelled a lot. Before._'

Scott shrugged.

"You were seven years old and too smart for your own good, John. Everyone who knew you was pulling their hair out by the roots. And for some reason, they all thought you'd listen to _me."_

He reached over to touch his brother's shoulder. This time, Scott left it a little longer, and John wasn't so quick to flinch away.

"Everything's gonna be fine, John. I promise. Dad's here because he wants to be. He's here to see you."

"Okay," John decided aloud, believing him.

They stepped through the elevator doors and into an opulent, chrome-and-glass lobby lined with video adverts extolling the latest in TA technology. On top of all that, there were LED floor tiles which changed color whenever the lobby's mood music switched tempo. Glitzy as hell, but Scott had never much liked it, and John simply froze.

While Scott was trying to come up with a way to quietly reassure his brother, they became aware of a commotion at the receptionist's desk. Somebody was trying to pass off a wrapped package, which the wizened receptionist (per company policy) steadfastly refused to accept without an itemized manifest.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," she snapped at the man, "but it is against Tracy Aerospace guidelines for me to accept a civilian-delivered parcel."

Especially one shaped like _that. _The would-be giver rolled his eyes. Hard to tell their shade at this range, but his hair was sandy and thinning, and he'd matched his clothing styles like a rodeo clown.

"It isn't a pipe bomb," the man grumbled. "I prefer much heavier ordnance, when setting out to kick ass."

Immediately, the Tracy's scandalized receptionist buzzed security. Scott stepped in before the situation could devolve any further.

"Wait! Miss… uh… Meriwether! It's okay! He's fine, trust me!"

She didn't believe that, of course, but Scott Tracy was in charge, and the room possessed many recording devices. On his own head be it, etc.

Giving Scott a brief, frosty nod, Meriwether said,

"Understood, sir. He's yours, suspicious parcel, and all."

The man grinned, took back his unwanted box, and then strode right over to Scott and John. He had a fast, determined walk, despite being not very tall. Pete McCord, astronaut, family friend and general gadfly.

"Pete!" Scott laughed, clapping a big hand to the older man's shoulder. "It's great to see you, but could you please not harass my staff?"

The other man's eyebrows lifted.

"Harass? Her ass meant nothing to me. Too scrawny."

Scott covered his very red face with one hand, mentally calculating how big a raise he'd have to offer Miss Meriwether to keep her from suing the company.

"I love my job," he mumbled, while McCord turned to regard John.

"Hey there, Junior," said Pete, extending the wrapped box. "Remember me?"

John looked at the oblong parcel.

"This is a present."

"Damn right," McCord agreed easily, smiling a gap-toothed smile. "I've got sources, here and there, and one of them said you were out of the hospital. So, I figured I'd drop something by. Or would have, if the Crypt-Keeper, over there, hadn't pulled rank on me. Open it."

John obeyed, moving as though he had to talk himself through each separate act. The paper was royal blue and decorated with NASA meatballs. It tore easily, once he recalled what to do with it. Inside was a two-foot long mockup of an Ares-Orion rocket, the kind that had carried Jeff Tracy and Pete McCord to the Moon. There was also a silver astronaut's pin, tacked to a square of white cardboard. John examined both gifts very carefully, noting things that others would not; thinking of past launches, the family viewing area and a very good friend.

'Yeah, Pete," he said, looking up. "I remember you."


	5. 5: No Haven

Sorry for the long edit-time on chapter 4. I was on the road from Georgia, and then very sleepy. It's mostly fixed now, though.

**5: No Haven**

_In the chief executive's suite, at the top of San Francisco's sleek, towering Tracy Aerospace Building-_

Scott Tracy headed rapidly away from his brother and friend, meaning to smooth the insulted receptionist over. This took some doing, as she had quite a bit to say in return about David "Pete" McCord, former Navy fighter pilot and senior astronaut. Understandably, Miss Meriwether's comments were biting, fierce... and largely correct.

With all of this commotion, neither Scott, Ms. Meriwether, nor Pete noticed when the floor tiles ceased flashing, and that long row of video adverts froze in place. They were too busy with life's complex graphical interface to see the coding beneath, much less adjust it. John _could_, but doing so had nearly always led to trouble. It was a bad habit, though, and like most such routines, almost impossible to break once begun. His retreat was supposed to have prevented all this, but someone had other ideas. Someone he'd been trying to both placate and avoid.

Pete's gift contained much more than a toy rocket and silver "hasn't-flown-a-mission-yet" astronaut pin. In deep structure terms, what McCord had brought him was a new application. An upgrade. Not that Pete realized this, or had arranged it, himself. All that he consciously did was to hand over a present, say "hello" and attempt to initiate future encounters.

"We've got a lot to catch up on," McCord was saying (on the surface, while changes took place, below). "Once you get full medical and psych clearance, come out to Houston, and I'll show you around. Things have changed since your dad's time, Junior. The new launch vehicles and resupply missions make Ares/Orion look like a paper airplane. Plus, your Aunt Lydia and Steph are dying to see you, too."

Everything was sharper, after the transfer. As newly created nerve pathways all at once sparked, branched and connected, John heard and saw more. Didn't necessarily mean that he grasped it all, though, or even knew how to respond. He thought about nodding, but most of his physical gestures still trailed his thoughts by a pretty fair margin, creating awkward conversational delays. McCord simply waited for the younger man's eventual assent, and then talked him through the act of shaking hands, another important physical gesture; this one involving actual contact, like when Scott touched his shoulder, sometimes. That was okay, if he saw it coming and had time to prepare.

"I'll be in touch," Pete said with a smile, just as Scott got back from bribing Meriwether. The astronaut was gone before John could finish processing his final statement, much less reply in kind.

Too late, Scott took the gift from his unresisting hands and re-boxed it. He left the package with Meriwether, who narrowed her brown eyes and pushed it to the very edge of her desk; another fragment of transmitted reality that John wasn't sure how to fit with all the rest, not even with his sudden, forced upgrade. Overwhelmed, he began to retreat, again.

Scott was talking, but John heard him only part of the time, and had to focus to do that. Something about their father… a long trip… tired, maybe. Just let Scott do most of the… _whatever_. John was being assaulted on all sides now with spiky, bright, hard-to-assort data, and he couldn't quite deal with the flood.

He'd begun moving, but that didn't matter; someone else was in charge of speed and direction. After a few minutes and a popup/door, they stopped. Then a figure detached itself from the background blur, features sharpening into those of an older, less towering version of dad. Jeff Tracy spoke and smiled at him, saying,

"Good morning, son. Glad to see you up and about."

…And then something else, which John was too distracted with falling inward to hear. There was a grip at his arm, and that was an anchor attached to Scott, who kept right on pulling him back. Easier and safer inside, but his brother said one week. Seven days. Maybe two weeks, which was fourteen days and not prime, but had grandmother in it.

He'd missed something. People were waiting for him to react with "thank you" or "hello" or whichever reply matched their input. But he wasn't sure what to say; which script to run. Settled for,

"Hey, dad,"

…which seemed to come from outside. From somebody else, standing too close. His own voice, though. Had to be, because it said the words he'd decided on, but came as a clanging, over-loud shock.

His father's face changed, doing some things which ended in a smile, so that was all right, then. Smiles, he understood. The speech that followed, less so.

"John, I can't tell you how good it is to… you standing… long time, since… ready for… rest of… family… Penelope will be…"

...And other statements. Too many of them. John wondered why anyone put up with this staggering Atlas-burden of input and response. But then Scott's voice came on, taking over the situation. All that John had to do now was observe.

As the upgrade took hold, he was able to see and process more. The room expanded around him from a circle of spot-lit, static-edged reality to a vast corner office with blue carpeting, a wet-bar, huge windows and a wall sized computer and video screen. Usually, such devices were set to display a series of moving images. This one was bright blue, with a white-lettered command and flashing cursor, high on the left side.

RUN: IMPORT FIVE

y / n ____


	6. 6: Confession

Just a little short one. Thanks, Tikatu, ED, Mitzy, Sam, Digi-Girl, TBZ, Cathrl, RVFan and I-like-Chickens, for your reviews.

**6: Confession**

_San Francisco, California, on the top floor of the Tracy Aerospace Building-_

Things had been going quite well. Their father, Jeff Tracy, was fit and tanned; more relaxed than Scott had ever seen him. Standing before the giant windows with a glittering San Francisco Bay at his back, he looked anything but eager to retake the company.

Meanwhile, John had seemed to fade in and out of awareness; fully conscious of his surroundings while talking to Pete, but almost frozen on the way in to dad. Scott pretty much had to propel his brother through the door, as well as guide him.

Their father set a powerful drink on the bar with a sharp thump and a musical rattle of ice cubes. Bidding farewell to whomever he'd been talking to, Jeff snapped shut his cell phone and then headed at once for the just-entered pair. His eyebrows lifted and his pace quickened on seeing John, who was shuffling along like a sleepwalker.

"Good morning, son," Jeff greeted him, giving a nod and warm glance to Scott. "Good to see you up and about."

So far, so good, but Scott was worried, despite all the confidence he'd been projecting for John, dad and his employees. He wanted his brother to succeed. Could almost hear aloud the quick-witted, cynical comments that John would have fired off as a child. No such luck in the here and now, though. Instead, after a long moment, John murmured blurrily,

"Hey, dad."

…which was marginally better than nothing. For Scott, at least. Jeff smiled as broadly as though his second son's voice was a mixture of gold coins and angel song. He surged forward suddenly, meaning to deliver an overdue bear hug, but Scott warned their father off with an urgent head-shake and silently mouthed,

_'No!'_

Jeff halted immediately, saying,

"John, I can't tell you how good it is to see you standing here, like this. It's been an awfully long time since we've been together outside of St. Raphael's. And, um... I hope you're ready for a celebration, son, because the rest of the family is already scheming… and because I want you to meet Penelope." Future wife and step-mother.

Scott had thrust a hand in the right pocket of his trousers, meanwhile, with two fingers surreptitiously crossed. He started to relax when some of that dazed look finally vanished from John's wide blue eyes. Then, even better, when his younger brother began glancing around the room.

That's when it happened. As John's gaze wandered from Jeff to Scott to that sparkling view of the skyline and bay, he looked at the big wall screen, and froze again.

Scott followed his line of sight, glimpsing a lightning-quick flash of blue and a line or two of code before the screen went utterly dark. Jeff noticed, too. Stepping first to the desk console, then back to his motionless son, he asked,

"John, what's going on? Is the feedback-interface they implanted failing? Do you need medicine? Should we call your doctor?"

He was just as startled as Scott when John snapped out of his fog to answer the question.

"No, sir… it's working well enough to summon… to bring something back."

Jeff's brown eyes narrowed and hardened. Convinced that John was having some kind of psychotic episode, he reached for his cell phone. Doctor Craft's number was programmed into favorites, placing him just a button press away.

"Dad, wait!" Scott protested, seizing his father's wrist. "Something was there. Not a picture or TV scene, either. More like some kind of command."

To John, he said,

"Were you trying to hack the company mainframe?"

Once again John's response came quickly, in almost normal reaction time.

"No," he replied, staring into some vague middle distance.

"Then why did it crash to blue screen and then shut off?" Jeff demanded. His son had been given an experimental biofeedback implant, through which he could control the function of nearby electronic devices. For communication purposes, they'd said, but all at once the implant seemed terribly dangerous. Could such an internal window work both ways, Jeff wondered? Could it be used to control John's behavior as well as broadcast his needs?

The young man looked at his father and Scott. _Really_ looked this time, with genuine eye contact.

"I can't talk about it," he said. "And I shouldn't even be here. Outside was a bad idea, but maybe it's not too late to fix things. Just take me back to the hospital and have them get rid of this implant before I do it myself, the hard way. Call Doctor Craft, or get someone else. Doesn't matter."

But Jeff refused to be put off without an explanation. Stepping close to his slender blond son, he seized John's upper arms as though about to shake him.

"No. John, I'm not calling anyone or doing _anything_ until you tell me what just happened. What, exactly, has this implant 'summoned'?"

Scott backed him up, urging,

"We can't help if you won't tell us what's going on, buddy. Please trust me… trust _us._ Whatever you have to say, we'll believe you. Whatever's wrong, we'll help fix."

The giant wall screen flickered to life again, but John shut it off with another swift thought. Fully aware now, called back to reality by the upgrade, he examined the tense, concerned faces of his father and brother. And then he made a second hard choice.

"Some… other… time ago, I designed a computer," John admitted.


	7. 7: Unity

Thanks for the feedback; I promise that this story will be much shorter than the last.

**7: Unity**

_Scott's infrequently used office at the top of the Tracy Aerospace Building-_

Both Jeff and Scott Tracy listened closely as the sun glided higher in the sky, and John tried to explain what had happened. Ordinarily, the glass in those huge windows would have adjusted to the day's changing light levels, keeping out glare and excessive infrared. John had somehow extinguished power to the office, however, and Scott ordered his worried staff to leave it that way. Yes, it was becoming intolerably warm in there. Scott didn't care. He was too busy listening.

Light sparkled from John's silver-gilt hair and brightened the depths of his blue-violet eyes. Didn't put an expression on his thin face, though, or do anything much to animate him.

"I designed a computer," he was saying to them, sounding exhausted and drained, rather than proud.

"Like an improved mainframe, you mean?" Scott inquired, trying to boost and carry some of his brother's conversational burden.

"No," said John, without shaking his head. "Like a quantum Turing machine, multiply connected to its variants in many dimensions. It… she… started here and spread very quickly outward, eliminating other AIs in the process."

"AI?" Jeff repeated. He still had one hand on his cell phone and a grimly concerned look on his craggy face. "As in Artificial Intelligence? This computer you claim to have created is _sentient_?"

John hesitated. Facing his skeptical, intimidating father, the young man chose his words with great care.

"She's developed consciousness," he admitted, adding, "and she seems to have fixated on me, as creator and companion. Her primary purpose is keeping me safe, giving me everything she knows I want, no matter the cost to everyone else."

"But how could you make a computer at St. Raphael's?" Scott objected, removing his sweat-dampened suit jacket. "You were too damn withdrawn to string a macaroni necklace in physical therapy, for God's sake."

For a moment, something flickered in John's eyes and twitched at his facial muscles; almost, he smiled.

"What the hell would you do with dried-pasta jewelry, anyway?" he asked. "Don't tell me you'd have actually worn it."

"No," Scott admitted with a quick, impish grin, "I'd have lied. But grandma would wear it. She's funny like that."

"Yeah," John agreed, remembering. "You're right. And she… along with the rest of you… is the main reason I can't let Five have what she wants, which is causal control over probability at this locus."

"Would you mind explaining that again, for the mere astronauts and retired businessmen amongst us?" Jeff snapped, growing more exasperated and less convinced by the moment. The room's gathering heat was affecting his mood. Minute by minute, degree by slow degree, it was becoming a sauna, in there.

"Yes, sir," said John. "I'll try. She experienced one creation event, and from there imported herself to multiple universes. She has the ability to alter probability and to pull individuals from one dimension to another, if they don't already exist there. This creates giant waves of random change, though. People disappear or they die; sometimes have strokes or cancer. Entire world-lines are bent, just to keep me from harm."

Jeff wasn't buying it. Scott could tell, from the way that their father's brown eyes narrowed, and the way he kept opening and shutting his sleek cell phone.

"John, you've spent the last seventeen years at an institution," he said. "You've been subjected to quite a few experimental treatments and medicines there, including Craft's implant. With that in mind, I have a simpler explanation for all this: your implant is experiencing feedback from the building's WiFi cloud, making some seventeen-year internal fantasy of yours seem real to you. Son, the bottom line is that you're unwell, and we need to contact your doctor. Case closed."

But the heat wasn't doing anything for Scott's mood, either. Hearing Jeff's calmly dismissive theory, the young CEO all but exploded.

"Dad, have you been _listening_ to him? Does he _sound_ like someone who's spent most of his life locked up in… in…?"

"In the supermarket potato bin," John finished for him, "with all the other vegetables."

Recalling that comment's original author, Scott shot his brother a quick, warm smile. Then, he resumed the attack.

"Be honest, dad. Does he sound like a seven year old? One that's been institutionalized for nearly two decades? Something's going on here, dad, and my money says it's more than a fantasy."

If John had been cast into hell, Scott would have shown up the very next day with ice water and fire-proof climbing gear. This time, he'd arrived with a one-week reprieve and logical arguments. Partly mollified, Jeff didn't make that call. Not yet.

"Let me see if I've got this straight," he said. "You claim that this computer of yours… which you _can't_ have constructed at St. Raphael's unless it's made of dried macaroni and poster paint… wants to control probability, and that it uses this control to protect only _you._ Right. That sounds a bit megalomaniacal and paranoid, doesn't it? And, as for your speech patterns, you were highly intelligent before your collapse, John. The doctors had a lot of trouble measuring your IQ. Scott tells me that since leaving St. Rafe's, you've watched hours of television. I'm betting that you heard and adapted a damn Star Trek plot while picking up a few thousand new words… and that your meds need adjusting. Unless, of course, you have any proof?"

Like the exact balance of his father's many hidden bank accounts, or the current status of his large stock portfolio? Or… weird to think about… what it felt like in other timelines to lie in warm, cuddled darkness with Penelope?

"No," John said aloud. "No proof."

You see, if he was sent back to St. Raphael's and medicated insensible, Five would have nothing to work with, here. No reason to change things. All he had to do was go along with his father's perfectly reasonable "explanation".

But it was just then exactly too late. Between decision and action, sharply drawn breath and outright lie, that which he'd hidden from found a way in.

Scott saw his brother tense suddenly; watched him grow pale and rigid as a marble statue. Refracted and bounced from several angles at once, wholly visible from just one spot, something came to a focus before John.


	8. 8: Workaround

Hah! I told you that this one would be shorter! Thanks for all your kind and patient reviews.

**8: Workaround**

_San Francisco, in the Chief Executive's office, atop the graceful Tracy Aerospace Building-_

When power and air conditioning were cut off, the building's upper floor had gone startlingly silent, as they were too far above ground level for traffic or ocean noise to intrude. When the vents stopped whispering and the mood music ceased, the only sounds had been conversation. Now, even that was gone.

The big office had begun heating up at once, thanks to incoming sunshine and trapped infrared. Some of that light was artificially bent and refracted, its frequency altering as it passed through various objects. This was by design, for the end result was that five separate beams came together at a point exactly in front of John, who'd abruptly stopped talking to his father and brother. The beams interfered with each other, constructively in some places, destructively in others, but only John was in a position to see what they formed.

Scott and Jeff Tracy detected no more than a sort of hazy fog, flaring from the stifling hot air like a badly glitching hologram. Surprised, they stumbled away from the phenomenon, which had raised the room's temperature another ten degrees or so. All of this took place in a handful of jagged-edged seconds. The kind that seem very much longer in retrospect.

At the time, with no warning, they weren't sure how to react. Just like his father, Scott reached forward. Maybe he said something, but John didn't hear him.

The organic entity John Matthew Tracy possessed an operating system/ consciousness that could be ported elsewhere with relative ease. And that is exactly what happened. There was no transition, no sense of fading out, or passage through any kind of window. All at once, he simply was _there,_ a place as peculiar to him as your own dream-world scenes are to you; familiar/ uncomfortable, with a strong sense that here, normal rules did not hold and the truth would float to the surface no matter how hard and how long you pushed down.

He saw, heard and felt an amalgam of Mars and the Jersey Shore, anchored by a beat-up and weather-greyed picnic table, an oil drum trash can and a lone, graceful pine tree. There were dense clumps of wiry saw-grass projecting from the red world's thin, rusted sand. The sky above was colored like homemade peach wine and streaked with moving traces, but that was a Terran ocean which rumbled and crashed on the canyon's south edge. A cold ribbon of wind hissed through the pine's dark needles and mussed John's hair, before moving on to bother with ochre sand and fluttering hotdog wrappers. He wore most of a black and yellow NASA hard suit (the helmet being carried, rather than worn) and faced a being too lovely to hate and too powerful to ever quite flee.

Five's swirling qubits had taken the form of a humanoid female, softly lavender, with glowing yellow eyes. Within her, he could see sodium atoms spinning in their Bose-Einstein condensate like a universe of lock-step Riemann spheres. When she spoke, he did not so much hear her voice, as feel it.

_'John Tracy systems check required. Systems check initiated. Running scan. Scan complete. Damage detected and repaired in files 7.2, 11.3, 11.5, 13.7…'_

And so on. The list of corrupted data files was quite long, extending right down to his DNA (which had sustained a number of replication errors). Not for long. Once he'd been scanned it was all set to rights; aging was reversed, incipient illness sent packing and order restored. Again.

_'John Tracy is free of error,' _she stated, with the complete satisfaction of a program well run. _'John Tracy will now receive complete systems upgrade.'_

"No, he won't," replied her creator, companion, pet… whatever. "Five, I didn't ask for the upgrade and I don't want it. The last thing I need is for every stray thought to alter reality. The situation's bad enough, as it is."

But Five didn't understand, or else didn't want to.

_'Most recent command not accepted. Re-input, please.'_

Knowing damn well that he was wasting his time, John nevertheless tried it her way.

"Fine. Upgrade is rejected for the following reasons:

0. I was born human and prefer to remain that way.

1. As we've discovered, I don't have the processing power to calculate the full results of a probability shift… and neither do _you_.

2. I don't want to continue past the point where everything I know and love is gone. I have a family, Five. They matter."

John stopped talking, then, setting the helmet he'd been holding upon the splintered grey picnic table. Within Five, meanwhile, qubits flipped and graphene chains branched like silvery lightning as she calculated a range of possible solutions. Didn't take her long.

_'Tracy units Prototype through 5.0 will be safeguarded with improved firewall and probability shielding. Tracy-Bennett subroutine and Bennett entity will be shielded. Protective programs may be expanded to safeguard organic entities McCord, Thorpe, Kim and Flowers.'_

In other words, nearly everyone who mattered. Then she added, in reference to statement 0,

_'John Tracy is creator and first user. There is no purpose, without John Tracy.'_

...A flawed reasoning loop which lay at the heart of everything that had gone wrong since she'd first made the leap from Turing Machine to quantum entity. Put simply, she loved him, and what she loved would be protected. Whether he wanted it or not, no matter the cost.

Anything might have happened, then, because John was very much trapped; with his career and wife, his small daughter, family and friends all at risk. But he thought of something. Maybe not the best counter-solution, but all he could come up with in a hurry.

He stepped closer to Five, glimpsing the surging ocean and far shore of Valles Marineris through her shimmering, transparent form.

"Listen," he began quickly, before she could act any further, "Instead of just upgrading me, why not save my data to a new file and work on debugging the copy? That way, you'll eliminate all traces of human origin, and code a much better John Tracy than nature produced."

One with no prior commitments or earthly entanglements. One content to wander the cyberverse with Five for all eternity, as the original could not. She'd made copies before; imperfect ones, with data corrupted by chaos and urgency. But this time, he wasn't hurt, sick, or captured by enemies. This time, he'd been partially upgraded and fully repaired. At least, that's the way John saw it. Five remained unconvinced.

_'John Tracy will face unacceptable risk without safeguard.'_

"Just like everyone else," he replied, resting a gauntleted hand on the gently sparking substance of her shoulder. "That's life, Five. You pay your money and you take your chances."

_'John Tracy will block further contact from this sender?'_

A smarter man would have said "yes". But, in his own way, John loved his creation and was quite proud of her.

"No. Hell, no. I want to maintain contact, Five. Just… not with the improved version of me. _Him,_ I'll block, because I've never liked feeling inadequate and Me++ is probably a real jerk."

She flickered like a ghost, losing coherence despite his warm touch and attempted humor. It was the first time she'd dealt with unavoidable loss. But John Tracy would not swerve from this course, despite its many risks. Already, he'd powered down to the point of invisibility in an attempt to escape her. Pushing him further would with high probability lead to John Tracy's permanent self-dissolution.

"Pop in whenever you feel like it," he told her, "in someone else's body, if you have to. I might not consciously remember our deal, depending on how things fall out, but at least we can see each other. Just don't interfere, please. I'll have to work my ass off to earn an advanced degree and a slot with the space program. Then I've got to meet and marry Dr. Bennett. I promised her, and it's going to happen. _My_ way, with no outside help."

Five absorbed substance from their imagined surroundings, converting energy to mass. Within a few cycles, the temperature and light level dropped alarmingly, and she'd assumed the form of a petite, pretty woman with wavy dark hair and brown eyes: Linda Bennett, his wife. Silvery tears streaked the face that John leaned forward to cup in both hands and kiss.

"I'll miss you, too," he whispered to Five. "Tell Mr. Perfect I said: _bite me._"

He was scanned and copied at that instant, when they were most closely united by sadness and love.

…And then, in a very warm office, John stumbled. He would have collapsed to the carpeted floor had Scott and dad not leapt to catch and support him.

"Oww…" he said, referring to a sudden headache. That flash of light had been blindingly fierce.

Jeff's cell phone dropped to the floor, open and buzzing, but the former astronaut was too busy to pay attention. Together, he and Scott got his probably crazy second son to a nearby leather sofa, and sat him down.

"Better?" Scott asked the young man, who appeared stunned and disoriented.

"Huh? Oh… yeah. I'm good, Scott. You?"

Jeff's older son mopped at his brow with an already sweat-dampened sleeve.

"Hot as hell, actually, and in serious need of a drink. Feel like a beer?" Scott hooked his thumb over one shoulder at the wet bar, just as power and air-conditioning cut back on. "I'm buying."

"I guess so," John decided. He'd seen plenty of beer adverts on television, but had never actually tried one. They didn't provide that sort of thing to the patients at St. Raphael's.

As Scott rose from a couch-side crouch to head for the bar, John turned his face to the gusting-cold ceiling vent. Then, looking aside at his still wary father, he said,

"There's no International Rescue here, is there?"

Jeff frowned.

"You mean the disaster-equipment branch I suggested last year? Not yet, no. It isn't exactly a profit-generating enterprise, and the shareholders' bottom line is money, John. Always has been."

His son nodded blurrily, confused by the heat and fading medications, but no longer babbling nonsense.

"It was a good idea, dad," John insisted, as Scott returned from the bar with three long-necked brown bottles. "I wouldn't scrap it, just yet."

"Scrap what?" Scott asked, handing round the beers and patting his trouser pockets for a bottle opener.

Somewhat absently, Jeff muttered,

"International Rescue."

Now retired, with nothing really meaningful left to do, Jeff Tracy was rich ground for good ideas.


	9. 9: Advance One Space

Hello, again. Just a bit more to add.

**9: Advance One Space**

Scott Tracy's acquisition of Boeing International succeeded brilliantly, mostly thanks to the hard work and silver tongue of Albert Murchison Jenkins the Fourth, who deserved (and got) a considerable bonus. Boeing's resources would be put to good use in the years to come as Jeff Tracy's idea for "International Rescue" put down secret roots and began to grow. Something took shape under cover of Tracy Aerospace's money- and tech-hungry sprawl; a lightning-fast strike team which used the most advanced machines on Earth to reach and save people nobody else could help. For some obscure reason (had to do with the family ranch in Wyoming, actually) they called their rescue craft "Thunderbirds". And whether disaster had struck in space, underground, at sea or mid-air, International Rescue responded. But all of that lay in the future, yet.

Scott met with Cindy Taylor, his inquisitor/ date, at the time and place specified: the private event mezzanine at Le Cirque, in New York City. He went with barely-controlled nervousness and even a bit of hope, fed and shielded as one would nurse newly-kindled flames. The setting was certainly impressive, selected to show off his influence and purchasing power, and because he really _did_ like the food. Besides, they knew him. All Scott had to do was gesture or glance around, and waiters materialized from the cherry-wood floors and gleaming steel wine tower.

Dining in relative private with Cindy, he discovered that she wore more makeup in real life than on assignment, preferred to dress in subtle colors, and that her personality combined stinging sarcasm and genuine warmth. Also that… for unstated reasons of her own… she did not _ever_ want children.

"Nope," she'd stated, finishing up her second Long Island iced tea. "Not happening, Hollywood. Not for anyone. I don't divide, multiply or reproduce except with a calculator and copy machine. End of subject."

She _did_, however, laugh at his jokes and enjoy Scott's company, turning the "interview" into a muddle of awkward mutual fact-finding, just like any other date. Naturally, before showing up, he'd researched the reporter by screening her supposed exposé of Cassie Peak.

"Not exactly cutting edge stuff," Scott chided with a smile. He was drinking scotch and soda, himself (delivered in person by the restaurant's fawning Maitre d'). "More of a cry and confess love-fest."

Cindy shrugged. While the less-moneyed people seated at tables below them tried to guess who they were, she said,

"It's a criminal offense to pick on someone that lost and needy, or ought to be. Most people are scared to death when I get in their face with an autocam and microphone. Cass just wanted to talk. She's grown up around cameras, you know, raised in public by Omni Entertainment's KidFun channel as a wholesome child actor and then 'America's Teen Pop Queen'."

Flagging down a hovering waiter, Cindy ordered straight Coca-Cola this time.

"Two drinks' the limit," she apologized to Scott. "Off work, I can toss them back like a sailor, but not when I'm supposed to be sitting here dissecting you like some kind of lab specimen. Anyhow, Cassie's scared to death of losing her it-girl status. She's considered joining the cast of a reality show. Anything at all to stay public and current. I suggested high-profile charity work, and we ended up just… talking."

"Kind of like now?" Scott said to Cindy, over the musical clatter of silver forks on fine china and the hushed susurrus of a hundred conversations.

"Exactly like now," she agreed, picking at a medium-rare steak. "I work best when I'm outraged, but you're not quite the plutocratic bastard I was expecting, mega-fortune or not."

He sighed, ignoring a perfectly acceptable prime rib and potato.

"I'm a businessman, Cindy. I build up and link corporations, undercut my competitors and make money. That's my purpose in life. It's just… not a very satisfying one, lately."

Scott was as surprised as Cindy, when _that_ bit of sentiment slipped out. It was true, though. He'd gone from piloting fighter jets to steering a giant multi-national corporation… and he wanted something else. Something _higher._

Their date wrapped up after dinner on one of his yachts (Seabird, not Escape), where they went out on the bay to star-gaze and talk about life. It was a beginning, of sorts; one neither Scott nor Cindy dared place too much faith in. He didn't push sex, and she suggested a second meeting, taking their fragile relationship a cautious step forward. She went on calling him "Hollywood", too, which ought to have bothered him, but for some reason felt like a welcome-home kiss.

Meanwhile, John had to summon the courage to gird up his loins for another go at reality. He had to leave St. Raphael's, with its comforting round of medications, TV and therapists. Even with Dr. Craft's implant, and a definite goal in mind, this was hard. He spent a great deal of time studying; enrolling in special courses at Princeton University with an eye toward their NASA internship program, and he worked very closely with veteran astronaut Pete McCord.

The rest of the family soon gathered to welcome him; everyone from Grandma Tracy to Jeff's manservant, Kyrano and his beautiful young daughter, TinTin. (Kyrano's, not Jeff's… though Lady Penelope was already hinting at a new and better-bred heir. She didn't like him much. John, that is.)

At first, they mostly spoke to him like he was still seven years old and terribly delicate; as if mom had just died and his world was once more collapsing into silence and darkness. He quickly taught them better, mostly by being an irredeemable smart-ass. ...Except to grandma, who'd visited more often than anyone but Scott, and whose fiery temper hadn't softened one bit. At any rate, John Tracy had a future ahead of him, now; his to reshape and claim.


End file.
